


Memory of one

by Serenity



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-12
Updated: 2012-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-05 05:37:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Serenity/pseuds/Serenity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“[Sherlock] probably isn’t a virgin. I can’t imagine that man as a virgin. Something happened, somewhere. I think Sherlock would have to, somewhere. He’s a man with a past…”<br/>Steven Moffat</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memory of one

**Author's Note:**

> This story is inspired by Arthur Conan Doyle's "Gloria Scott" and is set some time after "The Blind Banker".
> 
> Betaed by lilith, who was endlessly patient with my first NC-17 fic. Thanks, darling!

 

On an early evening in late-autumn John Watson decided to immerse himself into Sherlock's old case-files. Their latest one had made a fair impression on John who still was not used to all the strange acquaintances of his new companion. The banker, who had all so easily handed him a cheque of twenty-thousand pounds, had been the least irritating of them. When Sherlock moved effortlessly through the streets of London, knowing every detail of vegetation growing around, of the mud, dust and people dwelling in each area John often wondered what depths of unknown water he would still have to wander until he could even faintly claim to know this man. 

 

Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, deeply engrossed into a new set of chemical experiments. Considering the smell of copper and burned feathers that had slowly manifested into a nasty taste in John's mouth, he suddenly felt a strong urge to leave the sitting room and retreat to his own bedroom upstairs. Before that, he opened the windows, checking one more time if Sherlock was still breathing in this horrible stench.  
“Try not to faint while I'm upstairs, okay?!” John said, slightly touching Sherlock's right arm. His flatmate did not display any sign of recognition which meant he was totally okay. 

John took the files and his laptop, walking up the stairs to his room. He retired to his bed, connecting the data to his computer and started reading, beginning with Sherlock's very first case:  _The Gloria Scott_ . 

'Sounds epic,' John thought not knowing what kind of adventure he was about to dive into.

 

*

 

“This Seb Wilkes was not a friend of yours?” John asked randomly while sitting over a late dinner with Sherlock , though he anticipated that Sherlock deduced instantly what John had done during the past two hours.

Sherlock lowered his head, pretending to be interested in his potatoes while John looked at him from  out of a corner of his eye. 

Friends... any subject for a dinner conversation might be welcome, but this. 

“No.” Sherlock said shortly, transporting some beans into his mouth, chewing on them awkwardly.

John gazed at him for a second, watching his flawless face wearing that cold mask again. He had never asked Sherlock anything personal since their mortifying conversation in the restaurant where Sherlock had made quite clear that he was married to his work. 

This time was different. 

While John barely knew Sherlock during their chase after the cab-murderer they now had solved some crimes together. John had killed a man to protect Sherlock and he would do it again, if necessary. That earned him some level of intimacy with this man, did it not? At least, that was what John told himself partly to gather enough courage to enquire further on the matter, his interest ignited by the content of Sherlock's files on the  _Gloria Scott_ .

“Any friends you had in university?” John resumed asking, watching his plate intently while swallowing down a mouthful of water.

Sherlock, who had hoped to avoid the inevitable questions of the common mind, sighed audibly. His brother had already dragged him through this kind of enquiry numerous times and Sherlock had become quite skilled in presenting mere facts on the matter than revealing keen insights about his heart. 

“What did you come across in your bedroom, John?” he asked bluntly. 

John did not get intimidated by Sherlock's harsh spoken words nor the intense look in his eyes. He had learned to withstand them, which was the first lesson to master when you got serious about living with Sherlock Holmes.

“Look Sherlock, it may be none of my business (oh, yes, it was), but...” No, wrong premise.

“What was it, John?”

John curled his mouth like he always did when trying to oppress his agitation.

“I asked you a question, Sherlock.”

Another intense glare from the opposite site of the table.

“I don't have friends.” he said and got up. Then he walked out of the door but John could not hear footsteps up or down the stairs.

He swallowed hard. The last words had cut through his heart like a Ninja's blade. John had not expected either these words nor his reaction to them. He exhaled, once, twice. This was Sherlock and when John got a handle on his hurt feelings a bit he rose, too, opening the door of the living room, finding Sherlock sitting on the stairs, staring along into nothingness. “Sorry, John,” he mumbled.

“Come back inside, please.” John said gently, offering his hand. Sherlock dismissed it but ascended from his foetal position on the stairs and followed John back to the living room.

“I will not talk about Victor.” Sherlock remarked and John Watson just nodded.

“It's all right.” he said, resuming his meal. Sherlock resigned from eating and returned to his experiments in the kitchen. 

John made a mental note: 'Do not ask him anything personal while having dinner.' 

At 11 am John bade Sherlock good night. At first he did not react, but before John could slip through the door Sherlock looked up from his microscope, calling: 

“I've just got one.” 

John backpedalled, swallowing again. He had no courage left today to ask him who this “one” was, though he promised himself that this conversation was not finished.

 

*

 

The next day John found himself browsing through Sherlock's files again. Sherlock had left the flat for research, as he put it, and this time John rested comfortably in his absence. He re-read the  _Gloria Scott_ file and could not help but wonder who Victor Trevor might have been. 

The file contained facts about an old man who had been caught up with his past and his son Victor who wanted to save his father's reputation. Nothing spectacular, one might think, but Sherlock had made some interesting notes about Victor getting him into the detective business. 

Most noteworthy, however, was a gift card for Sherlock's birthday. It had been scanned and added as a supplement to the case file itself. As far as John knew, nobody ever wrote cards to Sherlock Holmes, certainly not ones of sentiment, but this one did speak of serious affection and friendship. 

John felt strangely reminded of his own birthday a few weeks ago when he found a simple card on his breakfast table, accompanied by a single flower. It only read “Happy Birthday, John!” but the very gesture had choked him up unexpectedly. Sherlock had left the house early that day and returned only at midnight, evading John's reaction, not knowing how to handle it. John understood. In the evening he had gone out with his temporary girlfriend who had been replaced with a new one already. It was a happy evening but nothing worth remembering. At the end of the day the only things that had mattered to John were the card and the flower. 

 

So Sherlock did have friends and John was one of them.

 

Victor Trevor had died in an accident, though Sherlock always suspected that the sins of the father had led the murderer to the son, too. He had even outstretched some theories, though never pursued the matter further, why? Sherlock would have seen this through, he could not breathe with an unresolved case under the sun. John looked up, staring into the empty room and then he realised how to steer their next conversation.

Mrs. Hudson knocked at their sitting room door. “Dr. Watson?” she cried.

John got up from watching the telly. It was past nine o'clock. He opened the door.

“Sorry to disturb you but I'm concerned. Sherlock is standing in the front door and won't come in.” She gestured in confusion, talking like a mother, partly worried, partly annoyed by her favourite son's behaviour. 

“You go talk some sense into him. He listens to you.” she said, already descending down the stairs.

“Why would he do that?” John muttered more to himself, but grabbed his jacket anyway because he expected a long discussion rather than a reasonable Sherlock Holmes at their doorstep.

When John finally came down he let out a cry of anguish.

“Sherl...” his voice faltered at the sight of the miserable figure in the open door facing the street. He had never seen him like that. The rain had drenched Sherlock's coat completely and his hair curled in wet strands around his lowered head. He did not seem to feel the weather washing him away. 

John moved towards him, quietly, as if he feared to scare him off by making any noise. The rain was already soaking the carpet when John approached his friend, just standing behind him for a few seconds. Then he did something he had never done before. He took Sherlock's hand. 

The warmth of John's hand, enclosing the slim, long fingers, carried Sherlock back to Baker Street. And something unexpected happened. Sherlock gave in to John drawing him inside. Nobody spoke a word and John just removed Sherlock's drenched coat. Mrs Hudson had witnessed the scene with silent awe and took the coat, putting it away for drying.

They ascended the stairs together silently. When they arrived in the living room John fetched some dry clothes and Sherlock's blue dressing gown.  
“Go change, you'll catch a cold.” John said simply as if he just announced breakfast was ready. Astonishingly, Sherlock obeyed him without objection. Now John really got worried.

Sherlock went to his bedroom. After ten minutes without any sign of Sherlock's return John decided to check on him, only to find him in the same wet clothes, his new ones discarded to the floor, sitting on his bed, staring into nothingness.

Well, this was a tough one, John thought, but a few months with the only consultant detective in the world had taught him to accept every challenge this man provided. So, another first timer then.

He crossed the room to Sherlock's bed. John did not even bother talking but made him stand and stripped the wet clothes  off of him . Sherlock's resistance against the sudden intrusion of his personal space was half-hearted and waned quickly. He just let John take over what he thought to be necessary. John's worry about his friend outshone all his thoughts about shame and crossing the line of intimacy. The pragmatism of the doctor led his actions now and personal feelings got mixed up with professional concern. How much he cared already.

John wanted to keep his companion's last shred of dignity. So, before removing Sherlock's underpants John replaced the wet shirt with a dry one that reached easily down over Sherlock's bum. He put the clothes  into  his bathroom, giving Sherlock time to dry on his own before enduing him into new underwear. 

The whole scene was ridiculous but John did not care whether he had to feed Sherlock every day like a mother or dry him when he could not be himself anymore. He had seen worse in his career and never, ever, did he think of anyone less because they needed help. It was part of John Watson to tend to the weak and wounded, whatever that may require of him.

Sherlock still stood where John had clothed him again, his blue dressing gown open, the way he liked it, but unmoving. 

“Come.” John said and took Sherlock's hand, again, leading him to his favourite chair in front of the fireplace. It cracked on some bits of wood, the flames dancing in rising and declining shapes like waves on a troubled ocean. John knew that he had to leave him alone, allowing Sherlock to sort it out all by himself. 

He sat down at the table, opening his laptop and indulging into his internet activities. John ensured to sit  at a comfortable distance but still close to his friend, a game that had helped Sherlock best to clear things up inside in the past.

He sat silently for about two hours while John read emails, wrote something on his blog and smirked at funny remarks on his favourite videos. Then something stirred. John turned around.

Sherlock had moved his hands under his chin, a gesture of utter concentration, him evaluating the facts and premises of a case. So, he was thinking straight forward again.

John sighed inaudibly.

Another hour passed and John had moved to the kitchen, devouring the last bits of turkey sandwich he had ordered earlier from the new delivery service of SUBWAY. The chocolate cupcake waited for Sherlock to return. Sometimes, when he had solved a mystery, chocolate cake it was. So, John tried luring the beast to come forward.

 

*

 

“It was no accident!” Sherlock proclaimed into the silence between John's munching.

John looked at him. For a moment he just marvelled at the sound of his friend's voice.

 

John rose and went to the fire, settling into the other armchair in front of it. He faced the flames instead of meeting Sherlock's gaze to let him breathe. 

“What was it?” he asked calmly.

Sherlock looked up, John felt it. So he raised his head towards his friend and their eyes met. For a very long moment both men just pretended to observe the play of light on their faces 

“The man who drove Victor's father to suicide also killed the son.” Sherlock said, still holding John's gaze.

“Why didn't you expose him and told the police?” 

“I could not.” Sherlock answered, finally averting his face back to the fire.

John struggled with the urge to learn the truth but also wanting to spare Sherlock's obvious feelings connected to the matter. So he remained silent while only the fire was speaking. Time was important. Time and John's presence were all Sherlock needed. Him staying in this chair, not talking, was the green light for Sherlock to eventually open up.

 

“Victor was my friend... at university,” Sherlock said, his voice deep and dark.

John nodded quietly. 

“I will not bore you with the details of the case. You read everything,” he concluded with an edge to his tone that John did not miss. He kept nodding in approval.

“Students hated me.”

“Like Seb Wilkes?”

“Yes.”

“Victor never talked to me until his dog grew a fondness to my ankle and I had to go seea doctor. He insisted on driving me there. We waited three hours.”

John's mouth twitched with amusement at the thought of Sherlock being bored in an emergency room. “So you had deduced all hell out of everybody at the end?”

“Obviously.” Sherlock said, loosening up a bit in his own fashion. “My foot needed rest for ten days. During that time Victor came to see me every day.” 

“You became friends, you solved his father's case, The Gloria Scott?” John asked after a minute's pause.

“Yes.”

“Then why didn't you finish it?” This time John did not let go, a rare emotion fuelling his determination though he could not name it, yet.

Sherlock glared at him, wrestling with the decisions of either protecting his old friend's honour or revealing the secret of the birthday card. It was an old habit to keep secrets but he had learned to trust John Watson with some of them.

“Our chats lengthened over time and it transpired Victor was as alone as I had been. His father was rarely around but had strong opinions about the future of his son. He wanted Victor to become a judge or lawyer which he despised. Victor rather played the violin than spending endless hours of memorizing law texts. But his father had smashed his precious instrument before he enrolled at the uni... I offered mine.”

 

John gasped while Sherlock absently gazed at his violin. Victor Trevor suddenly felt very real to John. Sherlock had given his heart to this man.

 

“His father also disdained homosexuals.” Sherlock said coolly, getting off his chair and taking his Guarneri. He played some staccato notes of anger while pacing towards the window. 

“Sherlock!” he cried and his companion stopped tormenting the instrument at once.

“I suppose that's got nothing to do with the case, hasn't it?” John asked as composedly as possible.

“No.” Sherlock resumed playing more tender notes. “Victor was doomed the day his father died. It was only a matter of time until the murderer would hunt him down, the last heir to the Trevor family treasure.” The music stopped and Sherlock stood motionless in front of the window. 

John rose from his chair, turning towards the lonely figure. He wanted to touch Sherlock, easing his pain but he remained at a courtly distance. “He loved you,” John remarked instead.

Sherlock turned around, looking at John as if he had just made the most unlikely deduction in the world.

“Didn't he?” John added, his voice cracking.

Sherlock's features changed. His eyes widened, then focusing on John, mouth opening the smallest bit when he realised he had cut to the core of the question. So he asked back: “Do you?” 

 

*

 

John fell right back into the chair. The scene had changed so abruptly, his head swam. Stars, where the ceiling was supposed to be, a near death experience from his army days surging into his conscious mind.

“John?” 

He heard his name like through the deafening aftermath of an explosion. Firm, slender fingers enclosed his upper arms and when he opened his eyes again, Sherlock's face sharpened into focus.

“Yes,” was all he could say and Sherlock's features melted into one of his scarce, genuine smiles. They both beheld each other for a few moments, neither of them certain what would come next. Then Sherlock slowly released his friend, eyes fixed on him with a lingering question.

John inhaled deeply, drinking in all of Sherlock's attention. “I do.” 

How had their conversation changed into this direction? What had he just confessed? John felt suddenly exposed. 

“Don't be alarmed.” Sherlock kept smiling and strangely, John relaxed. 

“You are not the first one.” 

John's eyebrows ascended.

“Though...”

John's mouth opened while holding his breath in awe, but Sherlock just knelt down beside him, not able to finish his words.

After a few silent moments John said: “Tell me about Victor,” releasing Sherlock from this uneasy silence, guiding their conversation back to his original question. 

 

Sherlock got up. “He adored me. I listened to him playing my violin. He sent me cards every holiday season. I even became a part of his family after his father died....” He drifted off.

“Part of his family?”

“You know, dinner invitation at Sunday to his aunt's family or his late sister's husband.”

“Wait, you don't do social gatherings of any sort. Why with him?”

Sherlock gently stroked the frail bow. “I knew he'd die soon...” He swallowed. “I also knew he never  came out of the closet because his father would have disowned him and he never even would after his father's death...”

John gasped in dawning realisation “So you gave him what he may never would have allowed himself.” 

Sherlock gazed at him achingly “He was my friend.”

There was no fear of insignificance in John Watson. He just wondered if he had not just met the only consulting detective in the world but the most compassionate and committed sociopath as well.

“What happened?” John asked, not taking his eyes off his friend.

 

“The murderer was a contract killer paid by his cousin Richard Fox Trevor. He learned about Victor's sexual orientation, unfortunately by eavesdropping onone of our conversations in his father's house, and blackmailed him.” Sherlock took the violin up to his chin again, placing the bow carefully on the strings.

“Victor did not want a scandal, but mostly he could not cope with his homosexual feelings. He believed the lie society had fed him. He was so ashamed, it broke him.” A gentle melody filled the room.

“He made me promise to never take any action against his cousin but to stay with him as often as I could until the end.” The music stopped.

“I decided to accept his wish but I also ensured he would not die without knowing how it feels to have a man in his arms, loving him just the way he was...It was the only way for me to let him go while obeying his wishes. He drove off a cliff on vacation, all neatly planned but appearing as an unfortunate accident.”

 

John sat unmoving. Sherlock lay down the violin again and looked absently at his opened computer files. “After the funeral I fetched my revolver and in the evening I waited for Richard Fox in his house. He had just returned from the family lawyer with the papers that rightfully presented him as the new owner of the Trevor heritage.” 

Sherlock's body started shaking. “Oh, he had been so clever! Nobody ever suspected him of murder. Everyone had given him their condolences , but during all this time when I had played along for Trevor's sake, I investigated every move of this criminal with my deductive methods Victor had admired so devotedly.”

 

Sherlock looked at John sternly. “I pointed my gun at him, exposing his whole clever plot and he grew paler each minute.” He stopped again, avoiding John's gaze.

“I wanted to phone the police. Lestrade was already my confident in the matter...but Fox drew a gun himself... I had no choice.”

“Sherlock!” John said distressfully.

“Lestrade and I made sure it looked like a self-inflicted accident, never revealing the true nature of the events nor any of my involvements.”

“So the case has never officially been resolved.” John finished.

Sherlock nodded but there was no bitterness in his face. He had avenged his friend and, like with any case to follow, refused any kind of appreciation.

“I could not save him, John, but I brought his murderer down. Solving crimes offered meaning to the skills I possessed.” Sherlock closed the file on his laptop.

 

John breathed, deeply moved by his friend’s words. “Thank you for entrusting me with all this, Sherlock.” he whispered.

Sherlock turned towards John, watching him intently. Of all his adventures in the past there had never been a more intimate secret than this one and Sherlock felt as if he had cleared a path to his friend by revealing it. 

Eventually, he took John's hand. He let him.

“I told you, that you were not the first one,” Sherlock said.

John remembered. “Yes, you did.” His voice did not waver.

“But you are the only one who ever mattered.” Sherlock said, kissing John's hand like a gentleman from a different age. 

 

*

 

Sherlock's lips on his skin. Why did it feel so good? And why could he not pull away? All went stunningly still as if the world itself had stopped. Sherlock did not sojourn with words, he just acted like he always did. 

“I'm not gay, “ John's voice a hoarse whisper.

“Me, neither,” Sherlock replied, as if there was no such question to delay his actions in the first place. His blunt words brought John down. 

_The only one that ever mattered..._ His body simmered with raw, uncharted desires, surfacing all at once. He suddenly felt a lifelong mask of socially appropriate sanity getting snatched off of him and he had no say in it. 

 

_'I know it's fine.'_ These words filled with a whole new meaning. 

 

Between waves of need, panic emerged. “Sherlock, I can't, I've never...”

“John,” He stilled his friend by placing a finger on his lips. “I would never harm you. Will you trust me?”

John exhaled. He nodded.

Sherlock led him to the couch. 

He traced the neat line of the soldier's hair, had admired this sight from the beginning. John shuddered under the soft touch, closing his eyes. Sherlock continued with his brow, his nose, engraining the features of John's face with his hands. One finger touched John's lower lip and a jolt went through his body. He opened his eyes again, falling straight into rims of unfathomable depth and mystery, a mystery Sherlock Holmes was ready to unravel for his only true friend.

 

The kiss came softly, at first, Sherlock's lips warm and moist, tasting of man. 

John shivered. His stomach groaned and suddenly the panic returned, claiming his heart. He wanted Sherlock to stop but feared to hurt him. Sherlock smiled when he noticed. “I told you, I won't harm you,” he whispered, releasing John from his arms.

 

John sighed, relieved. Jesus, he was so awful at this! But then, he had never kissed a bloke. Until now he had known his part in such encounters. And though he considered himself a tender lover he always felt confident with being the man, strong arms wrapping around a devoted body of sweet and soft flesh. Did that make him a macho?

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked. 

“I'm sorry!”

“Don't be!”

They sat side by side, engulfed by a heavy silence. John hated himself for being so tense and fearful. This man meant so much more to him than anybody ever would, but still John could not lose control.

“Forgive me Sherlock, I think I better get upstairs.” John mumbled and rose from the couch. Sherlock sat perfectly still, letting him be. 

“Good night, John!” he said.

“Good night.”

 

*

 

He lay awake and the hours lengthened, his mind chewing on the events of the evening. He heard Sherlock preparing for bed, the bathroom door screeching like every night before the lights downstairs faded.

John drifted into a dreamlike state, hearing Sherlock's voice:

“ _... only one...”_

It got mixed with cries of his comrades, bleeding to their deaths under his hands. He saw them clasped to one another, crying like little children, scared and lost. John had often held them in his arms when all he could do was looking into their eyes so the last thing they saw was a friend. John had been the strong one, always, mending broken legs and hearts, never bothering with his own.

Why did he live with Sherlock? Was the annoying but superior mind of his not like a comfort zone for the weary soldier? Someone above all else who provided him with security and excitement at the same time? And did John not love to mother the genius in exchange? Both of them a perfect couple already, giving and taking in equal amounts, trusting each other beyond words because they never needed any. And had his answer not been 'Yes'?

Yes, he loved him and all that kept John from rushing down into his arms were ancient ideas of his sexuality that he had chiselled in stone when he had slept with the first woman in his life. He had emotionally denied himself all comfort he drew from their shared life, though he felt like wrapped into a warm blanket in his presence most of the time. John sighed. It took a Victor Trevor to realise all of that. 

 

He pushed the sheets aside, getting up and leaving his bedroom at once. It was three o' clock but he found Sherlock still awake. John entered his bedroom. His friend observed him attentively. 

John noticed that Sherlock was naked under the blanket. He moved closer and lingered at his bedside. Sherlock watched him in the dim light of his bedside lamp that painted John's body in a pale orange, then slowly lifting the blanket to ensure him it was alright. John had abandoned his doubts at the threshold to Sherlock's room or had he not already done it while entering Baker Street 221b for the first time? 

He opened the buttons of his nightshirt, stripping it off and finally dropping his pants.

Sherlock looked at him briefly, trying not to embarrass John and welcomed him into a most sensual embrace. 

John rested his head against Sherlock's chest, breathing in the familiar but much more intense scent of his companion. Sherlock stroked his head, placing a kiss on the soldier’s hair. All questions of sexual orientation faded into oblivion when he began caressing John's arms, his shoulders and the dreadful scar near his clavicle. 

_'I would never harm you.'_ Sherlock's words echoed softly in his mind. John felt any remnant of doubt vanish, taking the last leap of trust and giving in to the overwhelming tenderness of Sherlock's touch. 

“You can stop this any time,” Sherlock whispered. 

John nodded against his chest, taking comfort in his invitation to let go but to stay in control at the same time. Sherlock finally lifted his friend's head and drew him up into a long and passionate kiss. John soon gasped at the alien, yet familiar sensation, rightfully astonished by his body's reaction. 

His breath quickened, his heart raced and he lifted himself up so his lips could wander effortlessly over Sherlock's face and upper body. Sherlock tensed, shivering with pleasure. The muscles under the man's skin emanated a heat no woman could produce, the energy of their strength holding John into some kind of spell. He forgot about women and their pliant skin, his hands mapping every inch of Sherlock's body instead, creating a whole new memory. 

He constantly returned to Sherlock's lips, reliving the experience again and again as if making sure he did not dream all of this. Sherlock, much unlike his usual behaviour, was endlessly patient with John, delighting in the sight of his rigid soldier  loosening up more and more.

And so he never hid his arousal nor did John, both instinctively knowing it was the way of men displaying their passion, their love. No need to explain, desire arising like a demon from another world. But what to do with it? He did not want to fail. 

“Sherlock?”

“Yes.”

“Did you and Victor…you know?”

“Yes.”

Somehow that comforted John immensely. He lay hard against Sherlock's hips but his lack of experience made him the virgin here and he wanted to give up control so badly. “Please,” he whispered, hoping Sherlock would somehow read his mind.

 

Instead of gracing John's pleading with an answer Sherlock just took gentle lead, remembering Victor and his insecurity connected with male intimacy. Sherlock never understood it but he had learned to make his opposite comfortable.

He turned off the night light so all they saw now were moving shapes reflecting the dim street light, sneaking through the slits of the window blinds.

“Do you want me to?” Sherlock asked softly.

“Yes.” John replied, his cock hardening further until it hurt.

Sherlock hovered over John's body like a Greek statue, his lips gliding effortlessly down from John's mouth, over his throat to his chest, greeting every part with a considerate but demanding kiss. John felt each sensation like a first time. Nobody had kissed him that way. Usually he was the leader of action, but now he let this man take over and every second culminated in a new peak of pleasure. On his path downward Sherlock had carefully caressed his nipples, tickling his skin with strands of his curly hair, and was still descending. John wanted him to go there, yet, he still worried. 

God, why couldn't he just let go? 

The answer was taken out of his head when Sherlock kissed the tip of John's cock.

“Oh, my...!” 

His brain was about to explode and all worries were wiped out when Sherlock swallowed him whole. 

“God, Sherl..!” words failed him while Sherlock moved his mouth up and down John's cock. He dug his hand into Sherlock's hair, unable to control himself anymore. His thoughts narrowed to a single target. He wanted to come, now! His length pulsed hot between Sherlock's lips, whichprovided the perfect pressure, again and again. Sherlock's tongue joined into the process of driving John Watson mad over the best blowjob he had ever been given. 

 

“Sherlock...I...almost,” but a firm hand covered John's mouth, stilling his voice. The movement continued relentlessly in a flawless rhythm. 

Every lasting bit of resistance or self-control vanished and John Watson came in the mouth of Sherlock Holmes so completely and lavishly, it felt like his body had waited for this moment his whole life. 

He cried out in sweet agony, the throbbing only ebbing slowly, his penis still in Sherlock's mouth. His breathing eased down and Sherlock gently released him. 

When he found his hands answering him again, he felt for remnants of his orgasm but could not find any, whether on his body nor the sheets. He sat up, watching Sherlock swallow down. John stared at him speechless. Nobody had ever done this, either. He kissed him and tears welled up in his eyes. Sherlock held him close and both settled back into the sheets, enjoying how the world around them just moved on, every moment welcome as it unfolded. 

*

 

“So, in a way, you are still solving crimes for him,” John remarked the next morning over breakfast. Sherlock had refused to come out of his bed, so he brought him his toast and coffee, promising that would not become a custom.

Sherlock did not answer right away, considering John's words carefully.

“I think, he helped me to come out as well.”

“As the only consulting detective?” John asked amused.

Sherlock gazed at him. “Obviously.”

John smiled. “Did you love him?”

Sherlock looked into nothingness, his mind parsing what “loving somebody” meant to him. 

“No.” was the conclusion.

“Sure?” John asked, considering the nature of Sherlock's relationship to Victor.

“Absolutely!”

“How do you know?”

“Because **you** are the only one that ever mattered.”

 

 

 


End file.
